


Facing Forever

by jessahmewren



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Christmas, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessahmewren/pseuds/jessahmewren
Summary: After losing Scully, Mulder struggles to go on without her. Written for The Xmas Files Creative Challenge. Day 5: Tinsel





	Facing Forever

Written for [@thexmasfileschallenge ](https://tmblr.co/m_f92xD2ZbnbcMHACW6mzjw)and tagging[@today-in-fic](https://tmblr.co/mWWQsCCM_p_7xtjVwAfErKg) 

Day 5: Tinsel

-0-0-0-

It had been three months.  She died three months ago.  Three months ago,  _she died._

So, she was dead.

He looked at her side of the bed, the place where she lay.  It still smelled like her, had gone undisturbed for as many months.  Not like he slept there, anyway.  Or slept at all.

He ran his hands slowly over the coverlet, moved them up over the pillow, memorizing the contours of her body.  They’d made love the morning she was killed.  He could still remember her throaty laughter washing over him, her bright smile, her half lids as she came, the parted mouth he couldn’t stop kissing.  He hadn’t wanted her to leave, to go in to the FBI.  To hell with them.  And this country.  They deserved to be happy. 

To be a family.  He removed his hand, balled it into a tight fist as if brute strength alone could keep the memories at bay, the tears.  His son.   _Their_ son.  He had had so little time with him.  He thought of him often…holding that tiny being, Scully’s cherubic face looking down at him.  The sparse hair like spun gold and his inquisitive eyes.  God, for him to be like his mother and nothing like him. 

But God wasn’t listening, or it didn’t matter.  His son and his wife were gone. 

* * *

He reached for the shirt he’d worn the day before, cast off and thrown over the back of a chair after stumbling home last night.  Drunk.  It didn’t matter.  Drinking brought him but a brief recess in the pain and no real comfort.  He pulled the shirt on over his head, caught his reflection in the vanity mirror.  Three days growth, dark circles under his eyes.  He’d lost some weight, and briefly tried to remember the last time he’d eaten anything more than a few pretzels at the bar.  He registered these things impassively, as one would the weather, and cursed to himself.  He shut off the lights on his way out.

The street was bright and full of people.  He couldn’t remember seeing this many cars on a Saturday before, or maybe it wasn’t Saturday.  He looked at his watch, at the digital display, and the little calendar underneath the large readout said “Dec. 24.” 

 _Shit_.

He ducked into a coffee shop, windows plastered with jolly Santa Clauses and spray snow, and ordered an espresso and two biscotti.  It was better than nothing, and maybe the coffee would help soothe his splitting headache. 

The barista was beautiful, but that only reminded him of Scully.  She had flaxen hair and liquid blue eyes, fair skin and a pretty smile.  “Merry Christmas,” she said brightly.  She gave him a reindeer-shaped cookie in a cellophane bag tied with a red ribbon.  The name of the coffeehouse was piped in white royal icing.  “On the house.” 

He looked at the gift dully and managed a half-smile.  His eyes traveled around the coffee shop, to the little café tables.  They were mostly filled with lovers, husbands and wives sharing bits of cake and stirring each other’s coffee.  Together.  He felt sick.

Stepping back out into the bright light, he wished he had his sunglasses with him.  It was better than being inside, though.  He sipped at the bland coffee and hoped he hadn’t lost them. He looked around at the busy scene.  Even the trees that dotted the sidewalk had been decorated with ornaments and tinsel, the sun glinting off of them in mirrored flashes.  Delivery men crowded the sidewalk, their arms loaded with brightly wrapped packages and potted poinsettias.  He tried to stay out of their way, sometimes even stepping into the street to let them by.  When Mulder passed by a trash can, he tossed the free treat.

Now he knew he couldn’t go home.  Scully had always loved Christmas.  He needed someplace dark and quiet with no mention of it.

He’d stopped and hadn’t even remembered doing so.  He looked up at the wide set of stone steps.  Gray, featureless, leading up to two large double doors.   _A church?_   “St. Patrick’s,” the sign on the steps read.  He climbed them and opened the large doors. 

Inside it was dark, and he was glad.  He passed by the guestbook, the offertory box.  Mulder was alone, and he was glad of that too.  He settled on a pew near the back. 

He sat there in the dark-warm glow of the stained glass windows and looked ahead, at the baptismal pool, at nothing in particular.  He studied the crucifix hanging over the altar.  It reminded him of the simple gold cross Scully had worn.  He had buried her in it. 

Mulder swallowed, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.  The coffee on his empty stomach hadn’t settled too well, and he needed air.  Just as he moved to rise, he heard a rustling behind him, a shifting of feet.  “Hello.”  Mulder looked at the young man, the black robe and collar.   _Great_ , Mulder thought bleakly.  He managed a weak, apologetic smile.  “Sorry, I was just—“

“Looking for a break?  The priest gave him an easy smile and gestured to the empty spot beside Mulder.  Asking permission.  Mulder eyed him warily.  “Yeah, something like that.”  The last thing he wanted was company, let alone a priest, but the man was beside him with his hand out before he’d thought of a decent way to say get lost.

“Joe McCrary,” the man said pleasantly.  It remotely registered to Mulder that the man didn’t say “Father,” but he sure looked like one.  Mulder looked down at his hand a second before taking it.  “Fox Mulder,” he said.  Between the barista and this guy, it was the most he’d spoken in a single day in quite awhile.  He went back to inspecting the altar. 

After a few minutes of silence, Father McCrary finally spoke.  “How long have you been away from the faith,” the man said quietly. 

Mulder didn’t want to talk.  At all, about any of it.  And this man was beginning to piss him off.  “What makes you think I am,” he said a little too roughly. 

Father McCrary only smiled, his hands steepled under his chin.  “When you came into the church, you didn’t cross yourself.  But you paused, thought about it.  Non-believers don’t,” he said casually.

“Well, I don’t believe in anything.”  Mulder’s voice echoed a little in the sanctuary, and the reverberation teased him just enough to make him want to scream, to hear that sound all over the walls and ceiling.  Maybe his grief and hatred could bring down those pretty windows one by one, he thought, and the ceiling would crumble into dust, and those brittle walls would blow away and he’d be left standing in the rubble still screaming. 

He had to get out.

“Listen Father, umm, nice to meet you, ok?”  He was talking fast and couldn’t meet his eyes.  He gestured weakly as he brushed past the priest, nearly knocking him down.  He was halfway down the steps when Father McCrary called out to him. 

“This pain won’t last forever Fox.” 

He stopped then, turned around.  His eyes were steel points.  For all his want of silence and solitude of late, he had no trouble talking now.

“What do you know about pain?” he spat.  The last word was ground out through his teeth, choked on and then fell away.  “Or forever?  I’ll tell you what’s forever, Father,” he said as he advanced the steps again. “ _Dead_  is forever.   _Dead_ is my wife.   _Forever_ is my son!”  He hadn’t realized he was screaming.  Or crying.  He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, and his face was burning.  “They were taken from me,” he breathed.  “ _Forever.”_  

His face contorted with anger, alternately smooth, accepting, and overwhelmed.  He regulated his breathing, composing himself.  The careful practice.

The priest looked at him.  His eyes glittered with unspent tears, and he smoothed his hands along the sides of his robe, a useless action.  “God is also forever,” he said quietly.   “And so is His love.” 

He reached into his robe, gave Mulder a small card with his contact information.  “If you ever want someone to talk to,” he said. 

Mulder stared down at it, his eyes blurry with tears.  He thought of throwing it back at him.  Of pitching it Frisbee style at him hoping it would cause a paper cut so deep it would sever his carotid artery.  Of tearing it up into tiny shreds and eating it.  But he did none of those things.  He pocketed the card, made his way down the steps and into the sun again.  He did not look back.

-0-0-0-

It was late afternoon, but the sun had slipped behind the clouds hours before it began dipping below the horizon.  He’d walked for a couple of hours, thinking, and finally ate the biscotti, thoroughly crumbled now and hard as hell without coffee.  But it was what he had and he ate it.  He pulled the priest’s card out of his back pocket and looked at it.  Strangely, as disastrous as going there might seem, he actually felt a little better.  He slipped the card into his wallet. 

He sat on a park bench and thought of their last Christmas together.  Scully loved presents, and he had sent her one a day for each of the 12 days of Christmas.  To work, no less.  On the 12th day he showed up and took her to lunch, persuaded her to leave work early.  He’d ordered five dozen pink roses to be delivered that day, her favorites, and had spent the morning getting everything ready.  That evening, drunk on champagne and each other, they’d made love on a bed of pink rose petals. 

He hoped he never lost that memory, that image in his head.  Scully on her side, looking at him.  Hand in her hair.  Petals stuck to her dewy skin.  The color of her lips.

It was getting late.  He walked through the park, the long way home, and a street vendor had a cart of flowers.  “Flowers for your love on Christmas?” 

He looked at the man’s deeply lined face, his cart of wares.  The sun had reappeared only to go away again, and the sky behind the man was orange and beautiful.  Mulder gave him the money. 

Roses, the prettiest pink ones.  Mulder put his face into the bouquet and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.  Then, while there was still light, he made his way to the cemetery. 

-0-0-0-


End file.
